Remember Me, Irene ik-4

by Jan Burke

  Silence.

  “You received a photocopy, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “Shit,” he said again. There was a long pause before he said, “Leave me in peace, Irene.”

  “Are you at peace, Keene?”

  There was a sigh. “I’m an old man.”

  “O’Connor used to say there was no accomplishment in being young.”

  He laughed. “Seems I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

  “Entirely likely. He never claimed to have made up all of that stuff.”

  “Look,” he said. “I don’t think your friend Lucas Monroe knows how to get in touch with me and I don’t want him to learn. Don’t give him this number.”

  “He mailed the photocopy to your office?” I said.

  “Yeah. And I’m not in there much anymore. My kids run the business now. They bundle my personal mail together and send it off to me every few days. We do everything else by phone and fax.”

  I thought for a moment. “You have a fax at home, then?”

  “Sure.”

  “Fax the photocopy to me, Keene.”

  “Christ! You haven’t even seen it, have you?”

  “Fax the photocopy to me, Keene.”

  “No. I am sure as hell not faxing something to a goddamned newspaper.”

  “I’ll stand by the machine.”

  “You’ll stand there a long time. Wait a minute — what’s going on here? Why doesn’t your friend just give you a copy of it? He had enough of them made.”

  Decision time. Could I trust him? After a moment, I said, “There’s a good reason why he hasn’t given me the photocopy. I’ll tell you that reason, if you swear to me that you will not discuss this with your cronies or anyone else.”

  “They are not my cronies. Not all of them, anyway.”

  “Swear it, Keene. And swear it on something that means something to you.”

  “I swear it on my wife’s memory,” he said, and there was nothing casual in the offering.

  “Lucas Monroe is dead.”

  “What?! Oh God, tell me you’re shitting me again.”

  “You know I’m not.”

  “You see how dangerous this is? You see?”

  “You’re talking as if you don’t believe my friend died of natural causes, Keene.”

  “Did he?” There was a plea for hope in the question.

  “No, I don’t think he did. Coroner is still working on it, but nothing he comes up with will make me believe that Lucas just happened to die at such a convenient time. And I can promise you this: I won’t let this one rest.”

  He groaned. I waited.

  “I don’t really know anything,” he said again, but without much heat.

  “Keene, if you don’t know anything, you have nothing to worry about. And if you don’t, why are you afraid to send me that photocopy?”

  There was another long silence.

  “Too dangerous. Find somebody else. Maybe Tyler will give you his copy,” he said. “Talk to Tyler. Call him at his office.”

  “I haven’t been able to get past his first line of defense.”

  He paused, then said, “I’ll give you his direct line. But you better swear an oath of your own to me — you swear on O’Connor’s memory — that you won’t tell Tyler who gave you the number.”

  Oaths and numbers exchanged, I promised him I’d keep in touch.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” he said, and hung up.

  “HELLO,” the low voice said on the other end of the line.

  “Corbin Tyler?”

  “No one who has permission to call this number needs to ask,” the voice calmly replied. “Who is this?”

  “Irene Kelly of the Las Piernas News-Express. Before you hang up—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting, but I have no intention of hanging up, Ms. Kelly. That would be rude. Not as rude as divulging a private number to a newspaper reporter, but I imagine my chances of learning who did so are very slim.”

  “Nonexistent, Mr. Tyler.”

  “I understand. Perhaps this is for the best. My secretary has felt quite annoyed for the past few days.”

  “So have I. Why didn’t you just tell her to put the call through?”

  “If you called again on that line, Ms. Kelly, I would refuse your call. But for the moment, you have my attention.”

  “I’m calling about a color photocopy. Do you need me to spend time telling you which one?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to see it, to talk to you about it — and about a few other things.”

  I heard him sigh. “We will compromise, Ms. Kelly. Give me one hour. At the end of that hour, come to my office.” He gave me directions. “Park in the underground lot, near the north elevators. Use the one marked ‘private’ and enter this code on the keypad.” He read off a short list of numbers. “I’ll be waiting for you. Good-bye until then.”

  He hung up.

  AT THE TOP FLOOR of the building that houses Tyler Associates, the elevator doors open directly onto the reception area of Corbin Tyler’s offices. There was no one sitting at the big marble-topped desk that stood facing me as I stepped out. I heard the faintest kiss of rubber as the elevator doors closed behind me. I listened, but heard no other sounds. In fact, the place seemed deserted.

  Highly polished marble, glass, and brass surfaces were made less forbidding by soft, wintry light from skylights overhead and plush carpet below. A model of some new project stood off to one side in a glass case. Several doors led off the large room; all but one was closed. I walked toward the desk, my footsteps nearly soundless on the carpet. I stood there for a moment, then called a tentative “Hello?”

  No one answered. On the large phone on the desk, none of the buttons for the multiple phone lines was lit. I studied the room for a moment and spotted two security cameras. I murmured a little prayer of gratitude — I hadn’t done any scratching or adjusting.

  The open door led to a long hallway; along the passage, as in the reception area, all but one of the doors appeared to be closed. I couldn’t be certain, though; the hallway itself was almost completely dark. In contrast, the light filling the one open doorway was bright; so bright, I couldn’t see who or what was in the room.

  I stepped into the hallway. The bright light beckoned at the end of the corridor, but once I was within the passage, I could barely make out anything right in front of me. I reached out and found a wall, and kept walking with my hand gliding along the cool surface.

  Each step away from the elevators made me more uneasy. I didn’t know this place, or who Corbin Tyler might have contacted in the hour that had passed since we had spoken. In my eagerness to avoid John Walters, I had left the office without telling anyone where I was going. Only Keene would even know that I might have made contact with Tyler. “Hello?” I called again. “Mr. Tyler?”

  There was no answer. I kept walking. My own heartbeat, my breathing, sounded loud to me. I kept my eyes on what I now thought of as the light at the end of the tunnel.

  A voice behind me said, “Ms. Kelly.”

  I shrieked.

  I whirled around to face him, clutching my hand to my chest, embarrassed but too startled to say so. The afterimage of the bright light floated between me and a person who said, “I frightened you.”

  “Yes.”

  “My apologies. Continue down the hallway, please.”

  I didn’t like the way things were starting out. Rachel had taught me a few self-defense moves. I was going over them in my head, considering my options as I walked to the open door. Hoping to quickly evaluate the situation before committing myself any further, I slowed down and listened. I could hear Corbin Tyler slowing as I slowed. Think! I told myself. I could turn and run now. One man, I might be able to get past. If there were more… I peered into the room.

  The sight which greeted me took my breath away.

  There are probably better views in downtown Las Piernas, perhaps from some of the taller buildings, but I haven’t see
n them yet. Directly ahead of me, a wall of windows faced the water, where I could see ships, the bridges over the harbor, the breakwater and marinas. The windows curved with the room, so that to my left, they faced slightly inland, overlooking a section of downtown Las Piernas. I finally noticed Corbin Tyler.

  He had entered the room while I stood gawking. He was standing at the farthest curve of the windows, silhouetted by the afternoon light. He seemed to be staring at a building. I quickly realized that his attention was on the Haimler Building, a tall, graceful structure crowned by a complex glass design. The Haimler was one of Tyler’s award-winning creations.

  “This isn’t the best time of day to see it,” he said without turning around. “A little later, it captures the light in an entirely different way.” His voice, as before, was calm, low, even. It unnerved me in a way that Booter Hodges’s self-involved rambling never would.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked, looking back over my shoulder to make sure the door remained open.

  “I sent them home. Right after you called. I don’t want anyone to know you were here today.”

  “But the cameras—”

  “Are off,” he said, finally turning around.

  “Oh.” I felt a chill go down my back as he silently assessed me.

  Corbin Tyler’s eyes and hair were raven black, which was all the drama on the playbill of his features. He was a slender man of average height. His face was pale and thin, his mouth soft and unsmiling. There was a look of cool determination in his eyes. Everything about him said he was serious.

  “There is an envelope for you on the desk, Ms. Kelly. Take it and go.”

  “I appreciate this more than I can say, Mr. Tyler. But I also have a few questions—”

  “I will not discuss it further with you.”

  “Why not? It’s not as if—”

  He held up his hand like a traffic cop. I fell silent.

  “Don’t push your luck,” he said. He folded his arms. Something in his manner told me that I should be grateful for the photocopy and go, but as Popeye might say, I am what I am.

  “Do you know why Allan Moffett resigned?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I waited.

  “Thank you for asking. Now, if anyone has seen you arrive and asks why I met with a reporter from the Express, I will tell him that you came up here to ask about Mr. Moffett. Take the envelope and go, Ms. Kelly.”

  I walked over to his desk, picked up the 9 x 12 clasp envelope on it, and paused, my eyes drawn to the only other objects on its surface — two framed portraits. One was a wedding photo, of a bride with a round, merry face; the other a graduation photo, of a young woman who had inherited the best of her parents’ features.

  “My wife and daughter,” he said from behind me, then added, “My late wife.”

  I turned to look at him. He hadn’t moved from the windows, but his face had changed. I thought it had changed, anyway, at least for a moment. He still looked serious.

  “Your daughter is beautiful,” I said.

  He turned his back to me. “She’s all I have now, of course. Over the years, I’ve learned that I will do almost anything to protect her. Now, please go.”

  I reached the door and looked back at him. He hadn’t moved.

  “Why are you letting me have this?”

  “You speak as if I have given you a gift, Ms. Kelly. You’re wrong.”

  I DIDN’T ACTUALLY RUN to the elevator, but I thought about it. About halfway down the dark hall, I began to ask myself if this all hadn’t been too easy. As I passed the receptionist’s desk, I glanced at the phone and saw that one of the lines was lit. I paused and listened. I heard the low murmur of Tyler’s voice but couldn’t make out anything he was saying. The light on the phone went off. He had called someone. Who?

  My instincts told me to get the hell out of there. I hurried to the elevator and pressed the call button several times, as if the elevator would somehow recognize my sense of urgency if I kept signaling it. Tucking the envelope under one arm, I searched through my purse, looking for something that could be used as a weapon. My keys were all that was handy.

  I heard noises from the hallway, someone moving about, closing a door. The elevator car arrived. I stepped in, pushed the button for the garage, and watched Tyler emerge from the hallway just as the shiny brass doors closed in front of me, leaving me with nothing but a funhouse reflection of a tense woman’s face. Mine.

  I clutched the unopened envelope as the car began its rapid descent, seeming to pick up speed at each floor. My mind raced with it. Corbin Tyler had easily handed over something which might damn him, and then made a phone call. Did he hand it over because he knew it wouldn’t leave the building? Would someone be waiting for me when the doors to the elevator opened?

  The car suddenly slowed, a roller coaster dropping motion that was echoed in the lurching of my stomach. This wasn’t the garage. The elevator was stopping at the second floor. I moved away from the doors, leaned my back against the bank of buttons, my hand ready to press the alarm bell. I held my breath.

  The doors slid open. I waited. Heard the stairwell door close just before the elevator doors slid shut.

  The descent began again, and again the car lurched to a stop. The doors opened, this time in the cavernous underground parking lot. I held my hand on the “open doors” button as I peered out.

  The stark overhead fluorescent lighting cast shadows everywhere. I saw no one. The elevator buzzed at me in annoyance. I stepped out into the garage; the doors closed softly behind me.

  I heard every single footstep I made on the concrete floor, all the while wondering who else might be listening for them. I had my keys out, but still I fumbled to get the car door open. I got in, locked the door, and started the car. I heard the squeal of tires somewhere in the garage, hurriedly backed out, and roared toward the exit, my own wheels screeching. The startled attendant at the gate pressed a button and raised the gate arm just before the Karmann Ghia would have smashed into it, a contest I’m not sure my car would have won. The car jolted hard onto the pavement as it burst from the garage onto a blessedly empty street. I slowed, glanced in the mirror, and saw no one leaving the garage behind me.

  I took a series of unnecessary turns just to make sure no one was tailing me, finally ending up at the Express. I sat in my car for long moments, staring at the clasp envelope on the seat next to me. Finally, I reached for it, opened it carefully.

  There was a plain white envelope inside it. This one was postmarked Las Piernas. Except for that and Tyler’s office address, the white envelope looked identical to the ones Claire had shown me. Typewritten, marked “Personal and confidential.” Inside the envelope, the slick paper of a color copy was folded in thirds. There was no writing on it. I unfolded it.

  In what appeared to be an enlarged copy of a color photograph, I saw a group of people on a boat. It was a good-sized boat, a boat set up for serious fishing. I couldn’t tell its exact size or model from the photo, but it had the look of an expensive craft. There were seven men visible in the photo: Booter Hodges, Allan Moffett, Roland Hill, Corbin Tyler, Keene Dage, Andre Selman, and Ben Watterson. Hill was at the helm. Ben and Andre had their arms around a young woman. The other men were standing behind the woman, lifting cans of beer, as if in a toast. She was perhaps in her mid-twenties; the men spanned a range of ages, but all older than she by at least a decade. She had straight red hair, worn in a bowl cut. She held out a small sole; she was keeping the fish at arm’s length, but smiled proudly at the camera, in triumph.

  I had no idea who she was.

  I had the uneasy feeling that I was no better off than the fish.

  16

  BACK AT MY DESK, I decided to face up to the worst possibility — that Lucas wanted to use me in some way, to help him blackmail seven of Las Piernas’s leading citizens.

  Setting aside all the objections I had to that theory, thinking of Lucas as a blackmailer raised other questions. The worst t
hing portrayed in the photograph was “refusing to toss back an undersized fish,” not exactly an offense that would drive someone to commit suicide or tender a resignation. So what did the photograph represent? What did Lucas want? Had someone killed him in order to be relieved of his threats? If so, who?

  Keene Dage and Corbin Tyler had just confirmed a link I had only guessed at. Ben Watterson was not the only one who had been contacted by Lucas. According to Charlotte Brady’s description of the visitor who upset her former boss, Allan Moffett’s visitor could have been Lucas. I was willing to bet that Allan’s response to that visit was to call the other potential blackmail victims.

  The dinner party, with Ben added.

  “A man shouldn’t panic,” Booter had said. Allan had done just that. But what the hell could a homeless man hold over their heads that would induce that sort of panic? Something that could be hinted at in a photograph of a fishing trip.

  From Keene, I gathered that everyone had received this same color copy, but perhaps that wasn’t the case. Jerry Selman had mentioned a picture of his father with a former girlfriend. Ben had received a picture of a group of men on a boat now owned by Andre Selman. Was this woman in the photo the old girlfriend?

  Maureen Selman (I had to fight the impulse to think of her as Cinco) might have been upset at a photo of Andre with an old girlfriend, but she had been with Andre long enough to know that she hadn’t married a virgin. A photo — taken a dozen or so years ago — of Andre with a woman couldn’t really be very threatening. And the photo was hardly one of Andre and the woman in flagrante delicto. I looked at the rest of the list. Keene was a widower, as was Corbin. Allan and Roland were both divorced. I didn’t think this was about old girlfriends.

  Old girlfriends. I smiled to myself as I realized that SOS would provide me with a resource not everyone would have in this situation: old girlfriends who knew one another. Maybe one of the other members of the group would know the woman in the photo.

  What did Lucas want? Money was the easiest answer, but was it the right answer? It didn’t fit with the Lucas I had known, but that man hadn’t been living on the streets, either.